Paris Noir by Jacques Yonnet

was saying. Why did she have to go and tell her story of the Gypsy woman‚ the ‘long journey’‚ and the few coins?
    The Gypsy gave that characteristic smile of his. It was as if this was just what he’d been waiting for.
    ‘Let’s see if she was telling the truth.’ And at the same time he placed in front of the young woman a strange deck of cards‚ decorated with images unknown in these parts. ‘Cut.’
    Under Blackbeard’s guidance Paulette had to lay the cards out in a circle‚ cover them‚ turn them over‚ repeat the process‚ build up little piles.
    ‘That’s it.’
    The Gypsy seemed to be concentrating‚ and deliberately disposed not to speak frivolously – when Valentin came bursting in. The cards were still lying on the oilcloth-covered table.
    In her sudden exasperation Paulette’s face expressed disappointment‚ weariness and resentment of an unforgiving kind.
    Valentin instantly realized what was going on. He turned pale. I’d never seen him like that before.
    ‘Go on! Get out of here!’
    The sturdy Gypsy gathered up his cards and without haste very calmly got to his feet.
    ‘Excuse me! I know how to behave‚ and I’m not doing any harm!’
    Valentin was foaming.
    ‘Beat it! Scram!’
    ‘All right‚ if that’s the way you want it‚’ said the Gypsy sullenly.
    Outside on the pavement he turned and gave his new enemy a smile that was just as strange but different. I tried to get Valentin to listen to reason.
    ‘Look‚ about that guy‚ I’m the one that …’
    ‘Fine‚ fine‚ let’s change the subject.’
    His hands‚ his neck‚ his jaws were trembling.
    The Gypsy came by Pignol’s very late. He was in no mood for talking. We could only extract these disturbing words from him:
    ‘That friend of yours‚ he should never have done that. Never. If he only knew.’
    Obviously Valentin’s behaviour still rankles. It’s really got to him.
    Sévérin and I left‚ feeling preoccupied‚ rather worried.
    Well! He’s got some nerve‚ that Gypsy. He showed up at Rue de Bièvre at dawn. He asked for a black coffee. Valentin threw him out straight away. The rag-pickers there at the time‚ who scarcely knew who Blackbeard was – the people of La Maube and La Mouffe are fraternal enemies – made it clear that one of these days there could be trouble. Valentin cut short his constitutional‚ on the Pont de la Tournelle. A few days ago he picked up a starving dog. A beauceron. Today the animal was tied up behind the counter‚ with a generous helping of mash. Paulette sewed in silence‚ sulking. She’s plotting God knows what revenge. It’s blatantly obviously. I daredn’t say anything to her but the tritest things. Valentin‚ who wanted to ease the tension‚ shared some weak joke with me. He gave a forced laugh. His red wine’s turning sour.

    Little by little‚ the Gypsy has changed his stamping ground.He’s drawn closer to the embankment. According to his ‘colleagues’‚ he works immensely hard and ‘salvages’ an astonishing quantity of old papers‚ rags and metal. He drinks less than the others. No one knows where he dosses. Not far away‚ that’s for sure; because every morning he comes up Rue de Bièvre‚ and to Valentin’s exasperation stops in front of his window and stares at him with that famous smile at the corners of his mouth‚ ever more full of teasing menace.
    This morning Blackbeard couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He made so bold as to try and enter the café. Valentin‚ who’d just been waiting for an excuse‚ set his dog on him. With one bound‚ the beauceron – it’s a ferocious beast – leapt over the counter. With its fangs bared‚ it looked as if it was going to attack Blackbeard. But it stopped dead. The smiling Gypsy held it in check. Two fingers of his right hand parted in a V and pointed at the hound halted it in its tracks. Then the Gypsy made some gravelly utterances. And the dog began to tremble. It backed off‚